Mona's Gran always told her that movement was the best medicine for sore muscles. It keeps them loose and prevents them from getting stiff and tight. And as she cleans the house, she tells herself that she agrees with Gran. She tells herself she agrees with her even though her body screams at her to stop. Her muscles ache and protest with each movement she makes, but she can't spend one more day in bed. She never could sit still before this, why change now? On top of that, there is an inch of dust on every surface that isn't used, cobwebs two feet long, spider webs with dead and crunchy spiders, dried mud by the doors, and three inches of grim on the windows.
She smacks Dante upside his head with a rolled up newspaper when he puts his muddy boots up on the desk she just finished cleaning. He rubs the back of his head and looks up at her with a smile. Mona tries her best to give an intimidating glare, but instead, she winds up smiling. She lets out a huff and hands him a wet rag so he can wipe the mud off.
"Are you going to ride my ass the whole time you're here?" He wipes the desk off and then his boots. "Because I have to be honest here, I'd rather be the one doing the riding."
Mona rolls her eyes at his smirk and continues to clean. The kitchen takes the longest: there are pizza boxes piled up nearly to the ceiling, dirty dishes in the sink, empty boxes in the cupboard. She starts moving things aside and compressing boxes. A small high-pitched noise escapes her when a mouse leaps out of a cupboard and lands at her feet. She picks up her broom and gently shoos the mouse out of the back door. With a proud nod of her head, it runs off down the alley.
She turns around, opens a large cabinet door, ready to put cereal boxes in it, when a rotting shrunken head falls out of the shelf and onto the counter. It spins like a top a few times before it stops and looks directly at her. Bits of it's dried flesh are flaking off, it has a greenish hue in spots. The eyes are empty sockets with thread poking out from below and above the lid. Mona takes a sharp intake of breath, backs up, and smacks into the doorframe. Quickly, she bolts out of the kitchen, skids around the corner and runs over to Dante.
"What is it, babe?" he asks her without looking up at her. His nose still firmly planted in a gun magazine.
She grabs his big leather-clad hand and starts jerking him out of his seat. He stands up and lets her lead him through to the kitchen. She moves slowly, his feet almost catching the back of her heels. Part way, he lets go of her hand and draws his guns from his holsters. He touches her shoulder, and she moves behind him, fisting her hands in his jacket.
When he sees nothing in the kitchen, he looks back at her. "What am I looking for, doll?"
Mona points a long finger violently towards the shrunken head on the counter.
"Bob!" Dante yells half in surprise. "I was wondering where you went off to."
To Mona's great disgust, Dante walks over and picks up the shrunken head.
"He's harmless, Mona. Well… more so now that he's a shrunken head. He was a real dick before. I'll go put him up."
He pats her head as he walks by her and she makes a mental note to wash her hair again. Grimacing, she returns to cleaning the kitchen. It takes her what feels like hours. Her body has become pleasantly numb or accustomed to the aches. Either way, she's grateful for the moment. After she dumps the dirty mop water, she fills the bucket full again and mixes in bleach and cleaner that Trish got her. Lavender Mountain. It smells pleasant, more lavender than mountain (whatever that smells like). The bleach promises that she can walk about barefoot without contracting some kind of flesh-eating bacteria.
After moping the wide hallway, she finds herself trying to get a rather sticky door open. She pulls on it and it budges a few centimeters before slipping closed again. Her full mouth turns down into a confused frown. She pulls again, and again, and again. After about five minutes she stops, panting, and decides to give up on the door. Mona looks over the door slowly, studying the grain of the wood. There's a large splintered crack running from the top of the door and spider-webbing out towards the bottom. Her long fingers reached out and traced the trench in the door.
"Curiosity killed the cat," Nero's voice drawls out from behind her.
She jumps and spins around, her back hitting the door. Nero raises an eyebrow at her, his face unreadable other than the eyebrow. With an embarrassed smile, she shrugs her tense shoulders. This is totally awkward.
"Dinner is here," he says after a few moments of awkward silence.
Nero turns away from her, his strong legs taking him down the hallway. Mona follows him until it opens up into the living room. Three steaming pizza boxes sit on top of Dante's desk. It smells divine. Her mouth waters and she swallows it down. She didn't realize how hungry she was until she smelled the cheesy heaven in a box. Dante opens the box and starts dishing out slices onto plates. Mona's brown eyes look at it: greasy, fat loaded, carbohydrate induced, extra cheesy mess. She takes the plate from Nero's hand and licks her lips. She shouldn't eat it. But she's going to. The first bite is nearly orgasmic.
Dante smiles at her and takes a bite out of his own slice. "That's an adorable sound you just made. Have you never had pizza?"
Mona's grease covered fingers pick up the pencil in front of her.
My diet doesn't exactly allow pizza. It's been a few years since I've had it.
Dante looks as though he's about to cry. Mona smiles and takes another bite. She didn't realize how badly she missed pizza. That's a lie. She did realize how much she missed pizza. The diet of a ballerina is a hard thing. Before the night is out, Mona has three more slices and two beers. And it feels wonderful.
A few weeks later and Mona feels like she has been lying on the couch, looking up at the ceiling the entire time. Her computer is still at her apartment; her phone was busted the night of the attack. Her boss is no doubt pissed beyond all reason. And if that weren't bad enough, Clara is probably being cast lead in Sleeping Beauty. The whole idea of it makes her twist her face into a sour expression. She deserved that role, she worked damn hard to get where she was in a world where the only skinny white girls were ballerinas.
She glances over at Nero sleeping in a brown leather chair: his head is tipped back, his face turned up towards the ceiling. He looks peaceful when he's sleeping, younger even. It's odd really; for some reason, she thought he would have nightmares. She quickly scribbles a note out on her pad of paper, rips it, balls it up, and throws it in Nero's lap. Without opening his eyes, he picks it up off his lap. His hands straighten it out before he brings it up in front of his face.
"You want to go to your apartment and get things?" He gasps playfully and sits up. "You mean you'll actually leave the house?"
Mona glares at him, her face contorting into a look of impatience. Of course, she hasn't wanted to leave. She's terrified she'll see Matrem again. The last time she went outside, she nearly died.
"Alright," he says standing up, "but we'll have to make it quick."
Mona's apartment sits back two blocks from the river. Her favorite view is from her bedroom: the water can be seen over the top of the buildings. On early mornings, she can see the fog roll in. Inside the building is eerily quiet and still. Even the Jacobs' kids are silent. She lets Nero go first and takes cautious steps behind him. He climbs the stairs and she tries not to stare at his butt as she walks behind him.
Her apartment was unnerving: the hallway is pitch black, with a strange muted light coming in at the end from the living room. And there's a strange static charge in the air that makes Mona's hair stand on end. Nero stiffens the minute he enters the hallway and she knows he can feel it too.
"What's wrong?" Nero asks as he watches her face look pained.
"It doesn't feel like my home anymore."
He pauses for a moment before he pushes further into the living room. "Make it quick. Grab what you need and let's get the hell out of here."
She doesn't argue with him. It's almost as if something else has claimed her apartment in her absence. Pushing her fear and anxiety aside, she grabs a suitcase from the hall closet and starts throwing things inside: a picture of her grandmother, a photo album, eight books, laptop, cell phone, chargers, perfume, jewelry, a stuffed animal her mother bought for her before she died. She pushes that suitcase towards Nero and grabs another. She doesn't bother to fold her clothes: it's quicker to just throw them in. Quickly, she shoves in her leotards, tights, and a few pairs of pointe shoes. Nero throws her a questioning gaze, but Mona shakes her head; she'll explain later when she isn't so creeped out. Her grandmother's quilt is the last thing she places in the suitcase before she zips it shut.
Mona nods to Nero when she's done and starts to walk out with a suitcase. She gets three steps away from him when he grabs her arm and jerks her backward and shoves her behind him. Cautiously, she peers around his body and nearly retches at the sight before her. Her hands clutched his jacket tightly.
"Well, hello, Mona."